February 12, 2008
Today, my friends, marks the end of an era. Today I am giving up my frequent and habitual use of the word A-double-S. It's done, it's through, and I'm currently in the process of finding a replacement. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.
Why, you might wonder, am I giving up the use of my very favorite word cold turkey? Well, the answer is simple. I've become so comfortable with the use of my favorite A-double-S word, that I let it fly in a public meeting last night. Thankfully there were only five or six people present--but still--do you know what happens when you speak in a municipal meeting? Your comments are recorded in the minutes and archived in the municipal office for time and all eternity.
Thanks to Vivian, our elderly minute taker who can type 800 words a minute and never misses a sneeze, the following phrase made it into the notes:
"Amy talked about the size and scale of the Beach Run Road project, and instructed committee members to look at the blue prints on the big-a** sheet of paper if they were interested in seeing the exact dimensions."
It's true. I actually gave that instruction. But in my defense, my committee is young, hip, funny and had no idea what plans to look at until I described them in the aforementioned manner.
They were like, "Which ones?!"....."I have SEVEN sets of plans over here!"...."I'm confused, Amy!!!"...."What are we looking at?"..."Der?"....
So I said, "You don't really need to look, but if you want the exact dimensions, look at the big-a** blue-print that's folded up on the bottom of the pile."
They were like, "Oh." And within three seconds, everyone was happily inspecting the site plans. Which brings me to my lesson of the day:
Effective modes of communication are not necessarily appropriate modes of communication.
Jot that down, my friends. Tattoo it on your shoulder or write a book about it if you feel the urge--just be sure to remember it always.
So, in an effort to make my mother proud, my middle school music teacher proud, and these fantastically patient townspeople proud, I've decided to abandon the word all together. I will refer to the size of paper by its dimensions only, I will tell nasty drivers to kiss my cupcakes, and I will exchange the phrase "nasty-a**" for "frik-nasty."
Any other suggestions for word replacement would be valued to the highest degree.
Thank You.
When Blogging and Life Collide
February 11, 2008
It's been happening more and more often--I run into real life people who avidly read my blog. Don't get overexcited here, folks. It's not like I walk into the Piggly Wiggly and I'm bum rushed by adoring fans--"Oh my stars! There she is! It's the real Amy Lawson and she's wearing her green puffy vest!" That's never happened, and it probably never will. You see, if I ever get that famous, I'm totally springing for a new coat--with sleeves.
The truth is, I've moved back to New England, and I'm spending quite a bit of time in my hometown, around people I've known forever. And every so often, I'll run into an old friend or a casual acquaintance who's stumbled across the link to my site. When they tell me they love my blog, it's usually exciting for .48 seconds, and then the thrill takes a fast, sharp, unstoppable turn toward humiliation.
They're like, "No need for an update. I know everything that's going on in your life."
That's when my face gets flushed, the nervous pee trickles down my leg, and I respond with something like, "That's great, thanks for reading. Yes, I actually did marry a man with a sharting problem."
The blog/life crash phenomenon is on my mind this happy Monday because I had an incident yesterday morning, and it could have been the worst one yet. You see, my middle school music teacher, who happens to be one of the loveliest ladies on the face of the planet, is in my church congregation. It's really very strange considering the fact that we're in a completely different state than the one I went to school in, we've been back for six-or-so weeks and haven't run into each other yet, and she's married to my high school gym teacher. I was like, "Hi Coach D. I still stink at volleyball and I still can't do a pull-up, so let's just leave it alone, ok?"
I can't lie, I was thrilled to see them both. Absolutely nothing beats the sight of an old familiar face after living in Texas for four years. After the service, I walked up to Mrs. D, gave her a big fat hug, and proceeded to introduce her to my scruffy-looking family. I was all, "You remember my husband! And this is James..."
Mrs. D bent down, smiled at James and said, "I know all about you! I read your Mommy's blog all the time!"
As usual, I smiled in excitement, and after .48 seconds my face morphed into one of those I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU JUST RAN OVER MY BAD TOE WITH A BICYCLE IF YOU WEREN'T MY MOTHER-IN-LAW I'D KNOCK THE WIND OUT OF YOU type of smiles. But I smiled through the pain, and we had the following conversation...
ME: Wow, cool! How'd you come across my site? (I was really thinking, "Let that lighting fixture fall on my head right now, Dear Lord! Just do something!")
MRS D: Something, something, something...
ME: Oh yeah, we're thrilled to be back home! Happier than ever! ("But as you know, I still have that lingering self-esteem problem that started fifteen years ago. Some things never change!")
MRS D: Something, something, something...
ME: Yes, I'm very proud of Jared...what a man! ("Listen...we both know that we'll be paying off that student loan debt until 2049. Marry a doctor. Never a med student.")
MRS D: Something, something, something...
ME: That's right! My little James just loves to sing! ("....and poop in his pants. Even though he's the size of a second grader.")
And so on and so forth. Then, during Sunday school, we were blessed with a lovely lesson which touched on the topic of profane language. During the lesson, Jared would periodically pass me a post-it note that said something like, "Your teacher knows you like to say *ss." And I'd pass one back that said something like, "One more comment and I'm blogging about that bed wetting thing." The notes stopped.
Now I'm totally in the mood for my ten year reunion.
It's been happening more and more often--I run into real life people who avidly read my blog. Don't get overexcited here, folks. It's not like I walk into the Piggly Wiggly and I'm bum rushed by adoring fans--"Oh my stars! There she is! It's the real Amy Lawson and she's wearing her green puffy vest!" That's never happened, and it probably never will. You see, if I ever get that famous, I'm totally springing for a new coat--with sleeves.
The truth is, I've moved back to New England, and I'm spending quite a bit of time in my hometown, around people I've known forever. And every so often, I'll run into an old friend or a casual acquaintance who's stumbled across the link to my site. When they tell me they love my blog, it's usually exciting for .48 seconds, and then the thrill takes a fast, sharp, unstoppable turn toward humiliation.
They're like, "No need for an update. I know everything that's going on in your life."
That's when my face gets flushed, the nervous pee trickles down my leg, and I respond with something like, "That's great, thanks for reading. Yes, I actually did marry a man with a sharting problem."
The blog/life crash phenomenon is on my mind this happy Monday because I had an incident yesterday morning, and it could have been the worst one yet. You see, my middle school music teacher, who happens to be one of the loveliest ladies on the face of the planet, is in my church congregation. It's really very strange considering the fact that we're in a completely different state than the one I went to school in, we've been back for six-or-so weeks and haven't run into each other yet, and she's married to my high school gym teacher. I was like, "Hi Coach D. I still stink at volleyball and I still can't do a pull-up, so let's just leave it alone, ok?"
I can't lie, I was thrilled to see them both. Absolutely nothing beats the sight of an old familiar face after living in Texas for four years. After the service, I walked up to Mrs. D, gave her a big fat hug, and proceeded to introduce her to my scruffy-looking family. I was all, "You remember my husband! And this is James..."
Mrs. D bent down, smiled at James and said, "I know all about you! I read your Mommy's blog all the time!"
As usual, I smiled in excitement, and after .48 seconds my face morphed into one of those I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU JUST RAN OVER MY BAD TOE WITH A BICYCLE IF YOU WEREN'T MY MOTHER-IN-LAW I'D KNOCK THE WIND OUT OF YOU type of smiles. But I smiled through the pain, and we had the following conversation...
ME: Wow, cool! How'd you come across my site? (I was really thinking, "Let that lighting fixture fall on my head right now, Dear Lord! Just do something!")
MRS D: Something, something, something...
ME: Oh yeah, we're thrilled to be back home! Happier than ever! ("But as you know, I still have that lingering self-esteem problem that started fifteen years ago. Some things never change!")
MRS D: Something, something, something...
ME: Yes, I'm very proud of Jared...what a man! ("Listen...we both know that we'll be paying off that student loan debt until 2049. Marry a doctor. Never a med student.")
MRS D: Something, something, something...
ME: That's right! My little James just loves to sing! ("....and poop in his pants. Even though he's the size of a second grader.")
And so on and so forth. Then, during Sunday school, we were blessed with a lovely lesson which touched on the topic of profane language. During the lesson, Jared would periodically pass me a post-it note that said something like, "Your teacher knows you like to say *ss." And I'd pass one back that said something like, "One more comment and I'm blogging about that bed wetting thing." The notes stopped.
Now I'm totally in the mood for my ten year reunion.
Ask and Ye Shall Receive
February 6, 2007
Two of my all time favorite commenters, Vanilla and Akshaye, asked a very important question in response to my last post. They both wondered how that pretty-pink bear landed itself a crazy name like Email.
Here's the long and short of it.
SHORT ANSWER: James named it. He's two, he has no concept of appropriateness, and he would legally change his own name to SpongeBobSpidermanBananaHead Lawson if we'd allow it. Fortunately we have very sound judgment, and will only allow James to select a new name that features one cartoon character. He is currently deliberating between Skeletor Lawson and Elmo Lawson. Nice choices if I do say so myself.
(Holy geeze.where do I come up with this garbage? That was completely made up.)
LONG ANSWER: At Build-a-Bear Workshop, there are several steps involved with the creation of that very special forever friend. First you pick its limp and lifeless body out of a large bin. Then you step on the pedal to fill it with stuffing. After it's stuffed, you give it a pretend bath, with pretend water, in a pretend tub. Next you dress it, and then, after it's fashionably decked out, you sit down at a computer and type up its birth certificate.
This is where the name Email comes into the mix. After playing a Bob-the-Builder game one time, James has fallen madly in love with the computer, or the "email," as he likes to call it. So when we sat down at the computer to name the bear, all James could say was, "Email, email, EMAIL. EMAIL!!!"
"Yes James," I'd say. "That's the email. Now what would you like to name your bear?"
"EMAIL!!!!" he'd yell, "EMAIL!!!"
"Mmmm...maybe Pinky or Pickles or RubbahBoots?"
"Email."
Etcetera, etcetera, and so on and so forth. That's how the bear got it's name. Perhaps the more interesting question would be: Why does James call the computer an email?
When I was a stay-at-home-mom, which I miss desperately by the way, I spent so much time on-line that I began to feel slightly guilty and embarrassed about it. Jared would often come home to find me on-line, and in an effort to skirt the truth, I'd tell him that I was checking my email--which was a bold faced lie. Because in all actuality I was blogging, or reading blogs, or chatting with my running moms friends. Then I'd go on-line again before dinner and tell him I was checking my email, and again after dinner, and the pattern would persist well into the night.
Obviously, Jared knew I was fibbing because A) Donald Trump doesn't even get that much important email, and B) I wasn't Donald Trump, I was a babysitter.
To save my reputation with my toddler, I also told him that Mommy was taking care of important business and checking her email. I told that fib so many times that James came to believe that the computer was actually called an email, and the term has stuck.
Thank goodness I never told James the truth about the long chats with my cyber-boyfriend, because if my kid had started calling the computer the "Rock Hard Body God," Jared definitely would have caught on.
Hope that answers your questions because I definitely need to sign off--my boss thinks I'm checking my email.
Just kidding, it's my lunch.
Two of my all time favorite commenters, Vanilla and Akshaye, asked a very important question in response to my last post. They both wondered how that pretty-pink bear landed itself a crazy name like Email.
Here's the long and short of it.
SHORT ANSWER: James named it. He's two, he has no concept of appropriateness, and he would legally change his own name to SpongeBobSpidermanBananaHead Lawson if we'd allow it. Fortunately we have very sound judgment, and will only allow James to select a new name that features one cartoon character. He is currently deliberating between Skeletor Lawson and Elmo Lawson. Nice choices if I do say so myself.
(Holy geeze.where do I come up with this garbage? That was completely made up.)
LONG ANSWER: At Build-a-Bear Workshop, there are several steps involved with the creation of that very special forever friend. First you pick its limp and lifeless body out of a large bin. Then you step on the pedal to fill it with stuffing. After it's stuffed, you give it a pretend bath, with pretend water, in a pretend tub. Next you dress it, and then, after it's fashionably decked out, you sit down at a computer and type up its birth certificate.
This is where the name Email comes into the mix. After playing a Bob-the-Builder game one time, James has fallen madly in love with the computer, or the "email," as he likes to call it. So when we sat down at the computer to name the bear, all James could say was, "Email, email, EMAIL. EMAIL!!!"
"Yes James," I'd say. "That's the email. Now what would you like to name your bear?"
"EMAIL!!!!" he'd yell, "EMAIL!!!"
"Mmmm...maybe Pinky or Pickles or RubbahBoots?"
"Email."
Etcetera, etcetera, and so on and so forth. That's how the bear got it's name. Perhaps the more interesting question would be: Why does James call the computer an email?
When I was a stay-at-home-mom, which I miss desperately by the way, I spent so much time on-line that I began to feel slightly guilty and embarrassed about it. Jared would often come home to find me on-line, and in an effort to skirt the truth, I'd tell him that I was checking my email--which was a bold faced lie. Because in all actuality I was blogging, or reading blogs, or chatting with my running moms friends. Then I'd go on-line again before dinner and tell him I was checking my email, and again after dinner, and the pattern would persist well into the night.
Obviously, Jared knew I was fibbing because A) Donald Trump doesn't even get that much important email, and B) I wasn't Donald Trump, I was a babysitter.
To save my reputation with my toddler, I also told him that Mommy was taking care of important business and checking her email. I told that fib so many times that James came to believe that the computer was actually called an email, and the term has stuck.
Thank goodness I never told James the truth about the long chats with my cyber-boyfriend, because if my kid had started calling the computer the "Rock Hard Body God," Jared definitely would have caught on.
Hope that answers your questions because I definitely need to sign off--my boss thinks I'm checking my email.
Just kidding, it's my lunch.
E-Mail the Bear
February 6, 2008
Here is James having a moment of fear over the bear stuffing machine. He was reluctant to let the friendly employee put the stuffing tube into Email's rear-end, and really, I can't say I blame the kid.
Here we are, taking our new friend home. I was like, "If Daddy tells you that pink is for girls, then you tell him that his job is for girls."
I asked James to pose with his bear.
James was like, "Yeah, I built a pink bear...I know...that's funny...now stop taking my picture."
And finally, here is James posing proudly with his wondorous new creation. I think they look quite handsome together.
Last weekend we decided to pack up the station wagon and take a trip to visit Grandma. Seeing as she has a moderate case of Adult ADHD resulting in the attention span of a jellybean, my mom had planned all sorts of stimulus overloading activities for James and his little cousin Tyler
First, we had their pictures taken. I haven’t had a professional picture taken of James since he was six months old. In fact, when my mother asks me to send a photo, I often send her a picture that she sent me a few weeks earlier. She’ll be like, “I took that picture, Amy.” And I’m like, “So?!.” And that will usually be the end of it.
My mom knew full well that there would be no new Kodak moments coming out of my house for the next few months, so she went ahead and scheduled the photo shoot. This particular photographer is widely known for going to desperate measures to make kids laugh, and let me tell you, he did not disappoint. Rubber chickens were flying, Barney puppets were fake farting, and I do believe that my mother wet her trousers.
All in all, it was a good experience.
The next morning we woke up bright and early, ate a good breakfast, and went to Build-a-Bear Workshop…on a rainy Saturday…in the dead of winter. Needless to say, the store was packed. But after an hour of coaxing, encouraging, and convincing James that he was in fact having fun, we walked out of the store with this:
Meet Email the bear. Yes, he is a pink, sparkly bear wearing black, rubber boots, and his name is Email. Totally worth the pain.
Here is James having a moment of fear over the bear stuffing machine. He was reluctant to let the friendly employee put the stuffing tube into Email's rear-end, and really, I can't say I blame the kid.
Here we are, taking our new friend home. I was like, "If Daddy tells you that pink is for girls, then you tell him that his job is for girls."
I asked James to pose with his bear.
James was like, "Yeah, I built a pink bear...I know...that's funny...now stop taking my picture."
And finally, here is James posing proudly with his wondorous new creation. I think they look quite handsome together.
Hotness in a Can
February 4, 2008
Every now and again, when my ass starts to get a little fluffy, I'll go on a strange nutritional kick in an effort to turn things around. In the past two months I've gone from running forty miles a week to running four miles a week, I've become a working mother--and lucky me, it also happened to be the Christmas season.
So go ahead and do the math, people. Run the numbers, count the calories. Any way you slice it, I'm having a full blown fluff-fest in my pants. My butt cheeks jiggle when I sneeze, my tricep area swings around and smacks me in the face when I wave to my neighbors, and I've popped three buttons off of three pairs of pants in the last two weeks.
Fine. The arm thwapping thing is a bold faced lie, but I swear on my binder of State Building Codes, that buttons are literally FLYING off of my pants. In an effort to avoid further humiliation, I've been forced to keep a sewing kit in my treat drawer at work. That means less room for Kit Kats and cupcakes. Very frustrating.
To back things up a bit--when I begin to have difficulty breathing just because I'm wearing clothes, I often revert to self-developed nutritional gimmicks to get things back on track. For example, in the past I've convinced myself that jalapeños zap love-handle pudge, that extra icy drinks will freeze your pipes and block the absorption of calories, and prunes will make you hot no matter what you do with them.
Today my dear friends and readers, I'd like to introduce my newest approach to everlasting hot-bodyness. I like to call it the Low Sodium Generic V8 Dietary Supplementation Program.
Here's how the program works: You drink two to forty glasses of Low Sodium V8 every day, without changing any existing dietary habits.
Here's why the program works: Drinking vegetables makes you strong and gives you energy. In fact, vegetables are so good for you, they'll cancel out any other food you'll ever eat. Want a piece of chocolate cake? That's cool, just eat it with a V8. Want a t-bone steak drizzled with butter? That's cool too, just eat it with a V8.
You get the idea.
I've been on the program for nearly three weeks, and so far I've seen no results. But that's to be expected. I also expect to wake up one morning with the body of Christina Aguilera. I also expect to drop out of my program before that glorious day. What a shame.
A few days ago, Jared and I were waiting in line at the grocery store when I realized I'd forgotten my beloved V8. So I ran back to the juice isle, loaded my arms with several cans of my secret miracle, and hobbled back to the checkout stand. Jared helped me unload the six cans--you know, the large ones that you need special tool to open--onto the conveyer belt, and followed it up with a look of disgust.
I was like, "What?"
And he was all, "You're buying six things of Stop n' Shop brand low sodium vegetable juice in the big ass cans?! Amy, that's completely weird. Next thing you know, you're gonna whip out your social security check and pay with that."
"You stop," I said. "Vegetable juice is not just for old people. It's also for super models. And world-class athletes. And me. And you better believe, that once this stuff kicks in, I'm leaving you for a soap star with a trust fund so fast that it'll make your head spin."
"Or some guy named at the rest home named Herbert," he replied.
So here it is, the question of the day: Is Stop n' Shop brand Low Sodium Vegetable Juice in the large tin cans for old people only or can hip, young hotties drink it, too? I really need to know.
You can leave your opinions in the comment section, and--as always--your participation is greatly appreciated.
Every now and again, when my ass starts to get a little fluffy, I'll go on a strange nutritional kick in an effort to turn things around. In the past two months I've gone from running forty miles a week to running four miles a week, I've become a working mother--and lucky me, it also happened to be the Christmas season.
So go ahead and do the math, people. Run the numbers, count the calories. Any way you slice it, I'm having a full blown fluff-fest in my pants. My butt cheeks jiggle when I sneeze, my tricep area swings around and smacks me in the face when I wave to my neighbors, and I've popped three buttons off of three pairs of pants in the last two weeks.
Fine. The arm thwapping thing is a bold faced lie, but I swear on my binder of State Building Codes, that buttons are literally FLYING off of my pants. In an effort to avoid further humiliation, I've been forced to keep a sewing kit in my treat drawer at work. That means less room for Kit Kats and cupcakes. Very frustrating.
To back things up a bit--when I begin to have difficulty breathing just because I'm wearing clothes, I often revert to self-developed nutritional gimmicks to get things back on track. For example, in the past I've convinced myself that jalapeños zap love-handle pudge, that extra icy drinks will freeze your pipes and block the absorption of calories, and prunes will make you hot no matter what you do with them.
Today my dear friends and readers, I'd like to introduce my newest approach to everlasting hot-bodyness. I like to call it the Low Sodium Generic V8 Dietary Supplementation Program.
Here's how the program works: You drink two to forty glasses of Low Sodium V8 every day, without changing any existing dietary habits.
Here's why the program works: Drinking vegetables makes you strong and gives you energy. In fact, vegetables are so good for you, they'll cancel out any other food you'll ever eat. Want a piece of chocolate cake? That's cool, just eat it with a V8. Want a t-bone steak drizzled with butter? That's cool too, just eat it with a V8.
You get the idea.
I've been on the program for nearly three weeks, and so far I've seen no results. But that's to be expected. I also expect to wake up one morning with the body of Christina Aguilera. I also expect to drop out of my program before that glorious day. What a shame.
A few days ago, Jared and I were waiting in line at the grocery store when I realized I'd forgotten my beloved V8. So I ran back to the juice isle, loaded my arms with several cans of my secret miracle, and hobbled back to the checkout stand. Jared helped me unload the six cans--you know, the large ones that you need special tool to open--onto the conveyer belt, and followed it up with a look of disgust.
I was like, "What?"
And he was all, "You're buying six things of Stop n' Shop brand low sodium vegetable juice in the big ass cans?! Amy, that's completely weird. Next thing you know, you're gonna whip out your social security check and pay with that."
"You stop," I said. "Vegetable juice is not just for old people. It's also for super models. And world-class athletes. And me. And you better believe, that once this stuff kicks in, I'm leaving you for a soap star with a trust fund so fast that it'll make your head spin."
"Or some guy named at the rest home named Herbert," he replied.
So here it is, the question of the day: Is Stop n' Shop brand Low Sodium Vegetable Juice in the large tin cans for old people only or can hip, young hotties drink it, too? I really need to know.
You can leave your opinions in the comment section, and--as always--your participation is greatly appreciated.
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